“Well, I don’t know the specifics.” He laughs again. “More of a ballpark figure. But even so, I know we can beat that price by a considerable margin.”
Exhaling sharply and already out of patience, I sit behind my desk and boot up my laptop. There are a few tasks that need my attention before I return to Haus. Might as well get them out of the way while Jeremy tries to sell me on his firm’s legal services. I smell desperation.
“So Bancroft & Associates want to represent us,” I conclude.
“Yes, sir.”
“Even though we already have a steady relationship with Keller & Partners.”
“Yes, sir.” He sounds so sure of himself, it’s almost hilarious.
“Even though Roderick Keller was once part of Bancroft, Keller & Associates before he left to start his own firm.”
And there it is. The realization that I know his firm’s history better than he ever will. I know his boss’s sexual proclivities, his favorite gin cocktail, and even his social security number from our nondisclosure agreement, yet here comes this deluded fucker, thinking he can save his own ass by waffling me.
“I didn’t realize?—”
“And even though it’s a known fact that Keller and Bancroft parted ways amicably, and they even made a deal to never poach each other’s clients,” I add, perhaps enjoying the pallor on Jeremy’s face a little too much, “which begs the question, what exactly possessed you to come all the way up here to try and do precisely what you shouldn’t be doing?”
Jeremy goes still; his face is suddenly blank.
I know why he’s here. I imagine he’d rather slash my tires, but he’s in deep and can smell his own end coming fast, because a man like William Bancroft has a low tolerance for sharp talkers who succumb to white powders. Judging by Jeremy’s subtle twitches, Bancroft has every reason to be concerned.
“I can see right through you, kid,” I say after a long and heavy silence. “Get your scrawny ass out of my office and be thankful I’m not on the phone with Keller right now to tell him what kind of stunt you just tried to pull.”
“Mr. Manning, I believe your interests would be better served with us.”
“And I think you should leave. This is the second time in under twenty-four hours that I or one of my partner has asked you to leave. Do not make a habit of it, because none of us are below tossing you out the fucking window.”
“So, that’s how you want to play this?” he mutters.
“I can only suggest that you be more careful about how you address me, Mr. Copeland. Chances are, I know more about you than you know about me, and what I know about you could bury you. Be very careful.”
Jeremy may be a desperate idiot, a narcissist with a superiority complex, a frustrated piece of garbage with a pretty face and decent taste in men’s fashion, but he’s not suicidal. He takes the loss with a slight bow, then exits my office with his chin up.
“Have a good day, Mr. Manning,” he says.
“Oh, it’s already stellar, now that you’re leaving, thank you.”
12
RAINA
Valentine’s Day.
It was not that long ago that I used to dream about spending the day with my future husband: red roses, chocolates, dinner somewhere fancy, or maybe cuddling under a plush blanket at home while watchingCasablanca. No grand gestures, only thoughtful, caring, loving sentiments.
Tonight, however, feels different.
I long for a real Valentine’s Day with Alex, Max, and Vincent, but I know I can’t have it. It’s our last night together, as per our agreement, and I dread the coming morning.
“The day has just begun,” I tell my reflection in the mirror.
Fastening the top buttons of my chef’s tunic, I pull my hair into a tight bun and apply a smidge of concealer before I head downstairs. The whole day is a romantic culinary journey for our guests and their hosts, and I need to make sure every single plate is perfect before it leaves my kitchen.
I find Deanna waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase with a red box in her hands. It’s tied up with a white bow, and I notice the tag hanging from one corner. It has my name on it,
“Deanna, can I help you?” I say in a flat tone by way of a greeting.
